before he had slily dropped
some object in the grass. One of the men dismounted and struck a match.

"Why, it's Henry Dorgan!" exclaimed Mart Cooley.

Dorgan appeared to be greatly flustered and in pain. His left arm was
helpless from a wound in the shoulder, and from the fleshy part of it an
arrow protruded. It probably had been less painful to leave it there
than to pull it out. It was a home-made arrow.

"What you shootin' at?" demanded Bill Jordan.

"That infernal Injun," whined Dorgan. "He's bin pesterin' me; follerin'
me like a shadow."

The vigilantes peered into the darkness, and made out a hummock on the
prairie. It was a dead horse, and from behind it Injun rose and came
toward the group. He had been reassured by the sound of Bill's voice.

"Lemme go!" cried Dorgan. "I don't want no more truck with him," and he
started as if to run, but was roughly held back.

"What's all this rumpus about, Injun?" Bill Jordan demanded, when the
boy was within hearing.

Injun indicated Dorgan. "Him steal Monty," he said.

"Is that Monty lying dead over there?" Mr. Sherwood inquired anxiously.

"No. Him run away," Injun replied.

"Then it musta bin Monty that passed us," said Bill Jordan.

Through short, sharp questioning it was developed that Injun had seen
Dorgan take Monty from the Hanley Ranch corral, had borrowed a mount for
himself, and followed; that he had winged Dorgan with an arrow, the
shock of which had jarred him so that he had fallen from the pony. The
other arrow in Dorgan's arm was the result of another lucky shot by
Injun. When the vigilantes arrived, Dorgan was striving to return the
compliment. He had succeeded in killing Injun's borrowed horse, behind
which that expert young person had barricaded himself. It took but a
minute to tell this story. Again Injun indicated Dorgan and said:

"Him drop something." Running back in the course Dorgan had taken, Injun
returned with a small but heavy canvas bag. It was filled with gold and
silver coins, the principal currency of the West in those days. This
promised interesting developments, but Dorgan, who had fallen into a
sullen silence, refused to answer when questioned about the bag.

"What's going on at the Hanley Ranch, Injun?" Mr. Sherwood asked. "Have
those threshers killed Gil Steele?"

"Dunno, Make heap noise. Much fire-wa--whiskey," said Injun, suddenly
remembering his education. His object had been to "get" Dorgan. His plan
had been to watc